Page 55 of The Spirit of Love
“Fenny?”
“Jude!”
Under her breath, Summer mutters, “Holy shit, is thishim?”
Thank God Amy Reisenbach’s kitchen is the size of a soundstage and Jude’s too far away to hear. Why would she think that?
“Absolutely not,” I mutter back.
“Whatever you say,” Summer says between her teeth, “but there’s major energy between you two.”
“Like Tonya Harding and Nancy Kerrigan,” I mutter. Turning to Jude, I call, “Wrong turn, Jude. The bathroom’s one doordown.” I know my voice sounds brusque, but this was supposed to be my sanctuaryfromhim.
“Sorry,” he says, looking around, confused by his surroundings. “I didn’t know where this door led. I was trying to grab a second alone with you. Instead, I’m interrupting—”
“All good,” Summer says, giving him a friendly nod. “I’m Summer. This is where the cool kids hang out at these parties. My artichokes oxidize at a faster rate in high-stress atmospheres, so you wanna be cool, Jude?”
“Thank you for the invitation,” he says. “Yes, I do.”
“Great. Then you can stay,” Summer says. “Here’s some scissors. Fenny, show him how to snip the herbs.”
Jude comes to stand next to me. I breathe in his cologne, which I’ve never smelled before, a musky, spicy fig. He seems even taller when we’re side by side in the kitchen, and I try not to stare at how well tailored his suit is. Really hugging all the right places. It’s by far my favorite one he’s worn this week. Second place goes maybe to what he was wearing Tuesday night, that slim-fit white oxford and the pants I heard him unzip.
Not that I give the slightest damn about this man or his bespoke attire.
Scissors. Herbs. Focus.
“So what do I…” He holds a sprig of dill. I move the blades of his scissors nearer to the end of the herbs.
“Snip,” I say, and he does.
“You’ve done this before.”
“It’s not directing a show about brain surgery. You just want a very fine cut. You almost can’t be too fine.”
Does it sound like I just calledhimfine? Is that why both of us are blushing?
“You owe me an apology,” he says, taking me aback.
“I’m aware.”
“You said I’d be fine at this dinner, when in fact, I am in one of the lower circles of hell.”
I look at him, confused. “Really? Which one?”
“Fraud,” he says. “I believe that’s number eight.”
“You feel like a fraud here?”
“I did, until I found you in here. This is better.”
He wasn’t actually fishing for the apology I was planning on giving him. For being cruel in the costume warehouse the other night. No, Jude is truly struggling to handle the attention he’s getting at this dinner. Is it possible that he doesn’t want the acclaim, that he just wants to do the work? I don’t quite understand that because I want it all. If I was in Jude’s place, I would have glowingly soaked up a compliment and a hug from Amy Reisenbach. I would have written and delivered a grateful, witty toast to really luxuriate in tonight’s moment. I’ve been hiding in this kitchen for years because what I get at these dinners is, at best, ignored. I’m curious and a little impressed that Jude doesn’t seem to need or want that validation.
“You snip a mean herb,” he says. “But how come you’re in here when the rest of the party’s out there?”
The kitchen door swings open again, and in blows Amy Reisenbach, holding a pad of paper with handwritten notes. She beams at Jude. “There you are! My guest of honor. Everyone’s waiting for you.”
I think I hear Jude groan as she takes him by the bicep andflips through the notes in her hands. “Fenny.” She looks up at me. “I didn’t realize you were in here. That’s not good.”
